


Dont let your wonder turn into closure

by CosmicNeutral



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, But like why have it be gradual why cant things just like, Fluff, I just want monsters to learn to be human, Make everything Even Worse, Time Travel, Time? who's that?, What makes a human, and humans to realize they're monsters, and that really it's the choices we make, and that things aren't always as they seem, and then make everything better, but they will always be able to be better, go from Bad To Good, idk my famalam, mild existentialism, oh yeah, who are we and what makes us?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicNeutral/pseuds/CosmicNeutral
Summary: It's morning, now. It hasn't been morning in a very long time.
Relationships: Undecided
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

The trouble with time, Jon quickly learned, was that it was so closely interwoven with who you are. Time in general is theoretical, an illusion used to help categorize and organize events. In changing the order of those events, you run the very real possibility of changing who you are- to the point of a version of yourself who never would have changed those events in the very first place. In that case, you would never go back to change the events, making the events happen, making a version of yourself who would change the events, so forth and so on. It becomes an endless, unfathomable cycle-

And building on top of that, no new matter is ever truly added or subtracted from the world. Everything exists at one given point, an area marked on the fabric of reality where the concept of "time" intercepts that of space, and that interception simply has no room for overlap. If you were to go back, would you rewrite who you once were? Would who you once were rewrite who you are? Would anything change, or would everything change, or would not enough change over and over and over in endless cycles as everyone died again and again and again and again? Would only little bits of yourself go back or would everything go back or would not enough as you never learn again and again and again and again and again-

Time is a concept used to categorize and make sense of events that happen on this concept of reality we have built. These events influence us and change us, and it is very important that those changes happen in order for us to become who we are now. Would you go mad, at some point? At what point is madness worth it, Jon can't help but wonder.

At what point would you change everything, decide "this is not who I want to be." At what point do you change who you are? How far back do you go, how much do you keep and leave and alter and change and discard and when do you go mad? When do you go mad? When do you go mad, Jon wonders.

Is it staring at sky as the sky stares back? 

Is it the rain that is blood as your hair matts and your chest heaves and everything breaks?

Is it when you forget their faces and remember only a name?

Is it whenever you hold his hand but his hand is cold?

Maybe, Jon thinks, it's as the sky bleeds and the eyes laugh. Maybe it's as he's speaking in words not his own and hearing in ears not his own and observing lives not his own and know, Jon Knows, Jo _n Knows Nothing and Everything and the world has ended and Jon might be a little bit mad, but is he human anymore?_

_Is he human anymore?_

Now, Jon thinks, is the time to risk it all.

\------

Sometimes, Jon wishes he were better at planning things. Or even following through, really- but. When everything hurts, when your chest has been heaving with sobs for so long it feels as though cinders and ashes are burning your throat, your eyes, your chest- when you've not been human for so long that breathing feels as though needles are piercing through your throat and your lungs and your eyes- when everything is gone, gone, it's all gone-

Plans don't mean much anymore, really. Hope is a fleeting, delicate thing- a butterfly on broken, paper wings- and the winds are rough. When hope appears, you snag your chance. It's been a long time since Jon overthought things, not since Martin-

Not since Martin. 

What's the point in thinking things through, when every thought leads to failure and you can't even bring yourself to try? He asked Jon to try, and maybe in the here and the now there's nothing left, but Jon'd be damned if he didn't-

If he didn't-

If he didn't-

Plans don't mean much, anymore. Hope is a fleeting, desperate thing; a moth on wispy, paper wings- and the storm is raging. When hope appears, you catch it. It's been a long time since Jon overthought things, not since Martin and Tim and-

Not since Sasha and-

Not since Georgie-

Not since-

Not since-

\------

Time makes very little sense.


	2. All The World Has Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I overuse long sentences and underuse grammar to really grasp that gasping for breath confusion waddup

The first time, Jon cried. He cried and cried and cried until his throat tasted of copper and every breathe felt like needles. He cried and cried and cried as the eyes watched and watched and watched.

The second time, Jon didn't think he had enough energy left in him to cry; there was nothing but anger left. All left in his chest was an acid anger, a burning that was more cold than fire, ice filling his veins and freezing his heart as his teeth grind and grind and grind but- he's further back by then. Martin is still alive the second time. At least, he might be able to save _someone._

He was wrong, of course. 

The third and the fourth time were unnoteworthy, he only went back a few minutes each time, minutes long enough to watch- again and again to watch-

The fifth time is with red behind his eyes, because that's the only time he can close his eyes anymore- watching, always watching, except when he's hurting and hurting and hurting and their screams are echoing in his head and the blood splatters behind his eyes. He nearly punches Tim, that time- Tim punches back. Things don't change much, except to get worse.

He's starting to think he might be the problem, actually.

Six. Pain, nothing but pain, he goes back far enough but this time the Archivist is Sasha, brilliant Sasha, who knows so much and is so good. How could he have forgotten her face, her voice, her attitude, she nearly did it, too- and then he realizes, looking back at pictures. That was not Martin next to him anymore. That was not Martin and he only barely remembers Martin and Sasha may be the Archivist, but Jonah is watching Jon and-

Things go downhill from there.

Seven. He's the Archives already. He doesn't remember going back, but. He's the Archives.

Ten. He saved Gerry. Damnit, he saved Gerry, but- but- but- there's blood behind his eyes, every time he sleeps except he's not the Archive, he's not the Archivist, he's never been the Archive but he's always been the Archive and he hears screams every night and he wakes to blood and eyes and He is Still The Archive and Jonah Knows, somehow, Jonah Knows.

Twelve.

One more fucking time. One more time. Jon doesn't know if he can take it, if it's worth it, if it'll be enough- but he has learned something from his time again and again amidst the screams and the suffering only partially his own. Jon has learned something from his smile, his hand, and Martin asked him to just try, so long ago and maybe this isn't what that Martin meant but Jon Loves that Martin and Jon has lost so much so he would try.

He would try.

He wakes to a whimper that is his own, using a voice that is his own. That's a start- but. He wakes to hands that are his, as well. That might be a problem, Jon thinks or maybe says because he hasn't been saying much lately and somebody startles in the next aisle over and-

There's a can of beans in his hands? His scarred hand, to be precise, with an eye directly over where the burn is staring up at him with the same confusion, because this is still his eye, right, and why is he holding a can of beans because there wasn't any supermarket when his hand stared back at him, but no. That's a can of bean.

"Hello?" a timid voice calls over and Jon blinks, his shoulders rising. he stares at the fully stocked row of cans, so many _cans._ He startled someone, maybe. He should tell them not to worry.

"Is everything alright?" another voice, louder but no less worried.

Jon clears his voice, testing what's left, what he can and can't say, what is his voice and what is not because he has to be Jon, he has to be Jon, He can't be the archives but he might just be "Fine, sorry." His voice came out strained and unused, but, "Just fine."

Most of his shopping was canned food and bread and coffee, he thought he might like a cup of coffee. Maybe a cigarette, but- a cup of coffee sounded. It sounded.

"A cup of coffe sounds good," he murmurs to the cashier, if only to hear his voice. It's scratchy and unused, and he understands the wide-eyed look the cashier gives him. This is very much off script, but. "A cup of coffee."

"It," the young cashier asks back, their name tag reading Em, "it does, it sure does?"

Jon checks his phone as he's leaving and types in an address. He's lived in the same place for so long; he might not know how to get there and _there's a bumblebee five feet down the street, two streets away from this address. The bee is a subclass of-_

He certainly doesn't Know how to get there; if his phone is to be believed he shouldn't Know anything at all. Not Yet.

After all, Jonathan Sims should still be in research. Terrorizing the Fears and killing the assistants is a job that falls to Gertrude Robinson at this point in time.

**Author's Note:**

> Me, sitting down to write tired feral teacher jon-
> 
> My fingers: hey but what if


End file.
